Origina of Daimonin

Prologue


   There lived a Sorcerer's son, who, in his rush to grow up, and become “All Powerful,” forgot a few things.  The first of which, was that, even though he admired and looked up to his Father, everyone was mortal.

   Now, thats not to say that being “All Powerful” doesn't make you immortal, as it does...  As long as no one is more clever than you are (you only have so much time to spend looking into the future, trying to prevent your imminent and most probably demise).

   So this son, who was handsomely built, with light blue eyes and dark black hair, and was revered during his every waking hour by servants (both magical and paid- the Sorcerer did not find slavery acceptable by any means...), often forgot that there was, actually, a world beyond his sight at times.  What is more peculiar, however, is when he did go beyond the bounds of his Father's Tower and Walled Courtyard, and saw other people, they intimidated him.

   Why, the Servants, nor the Sorcerer knew, and it was worried that perhaps, just perhaps he was more scared at the prospect that these people could be stronger, bright or better at Magics when compared to him.  This wouldn't be new to him, as each Servant had a task to preform, and the boy knew, for instance, that the Wall Builder could carry far more than the Boy ever could, but he also knew from experience that turning the Wall Builder into a frog was a fairly easy fix to such a problem.  But what if such a strong Element also knew how to counter the Boy's magics?  He had heard that Elder Earth elementals knew such spells, and also other spells that could transform them into any shape or size they needed to be at the moment.  Perhaps one of those Elementals were walking around outside right at this moment, waiting for the Boy to slip up, and crush him without another thought...

   So, with those thoughts in mind, the boy seemed to be on pins and needles whenever he strolled about the town outside of the Tower's Walls.  The Sorcerer did not know what to do about this.  He did not want to demonstrate that no creature dare strike His Son, for fear of His eternal wraith, because such a demonstration would just make the Boy arrogant.  He searched for hours looking into the future at terrible things to come, but was never given a solution.  Once he spent a year inside a time-rip, looking at the future the entire time trying to glimpse even a thread of hope to such a fear, but to no avail, and left his time-rip a year aged seconds later.

   So worried and dazzled by the terrible happenings of the future, that this lonely All Powerful Sorcerer started to visit other Planes, and the All Powerful beings that resided there, to discuss with them his dilemma.

   Such a happening was rarely done, and show two traits that no Being of Ego dared show except in the greatest times of stress, or the greatest times of wisdom.  These traits were Humility, and Courage.

   So odd was this to other Beings, that some challenged His right to Power.  Inevitably, however, each being he spoke with saw the truth to his statements, after an occasionally clash of invisible forces.  Each Being came with the same answers, fearful answers, that resulted in the same conclusion that He foresaw with his own eyes.  This weighed him down with each visit as he traveled from Plane to Plane.

Chapter One: Magic, The Fabric

   “Great Father!”  A Young masculine lithe form that looked much like icy fog sheets slithered across dark ebony marble floors, cascading into a rising pile of bubbling gas.  “I have missed you!”  It took shape upright and the fog flashed, shrinking rapidly into the form very resemblant to that which was on the ground, only this one more human.  His eyes were a light blue, almost gray, and gave the impression that they saw nothing but the bones on your skeleton, their stare was so sharp and piercing, that some townsfolk even suggested cutting steel swords of their enemies with them.  The rest of the body followed in similar fashion, his fingers came out of his hands like claws with small dagger points on this, his arms so thin you'd think he shouldn't be able to hold his hands above his waist, bones protruded at every junction.  “Will you tell me stories of your travels?!”

   The great figure of his Father rose only 5 foot 7 inches tall, but emanated a feeling, thought, and essence of raw power.  He made a low humming sound, that if dismantled from the shear force of his will would have been recognized as a “Hmmmmm.”  His eyes, although unseen, had a force of sensing the world around him in far more ways than any ordinary mind could comprehend.  With these eyes, he saw his son.  “Son,” his voice came low, and commanded innate obedience without any request of such service, “Such stories would please us both, but it is time for me to teach you about magic.”  Mist seemed to come from the Sorcerer's shrouded figure, and it seemed as though each drop of mist glowed slightly with the subtlest aura and light, which contorted reality near him to look as though he was the only being, the only source, the only object for miles.  Other objects existed, but weren't to be found near him.

   “Father, but I know magics!”  Hands raised, the boy flicked a few fingers, and muttered, to show a sapping grow from his fingers, and rapidly transform into a very sizably large tree, then begin to move, as a Treant, and bow to it's creator.  Which consequently scraped parts of the domed ceiling of it's paintings, causing a distant alarm from the servants... somewhere...

   A low rumble, if described, could be best inferred as “infectious humor,” came from the Boy's Father.  “Son, those are magics, true, but those are not magic.  There is no fabric to them, they are merely activations of existing weaves that have been there forever.”  The Eminence paused for a moment, hesitant to disclose what brought His magics above those of another mortal.  What made him “All Powerful”.  Teaching the Boy the sacred art of Magic, in it's truest form couldn't, for any reason, harm the Future.  This was His Son, and he must be taught like His Son, even if, one day, such an unfortunate thing was to happen to him...  “Such magic I speak of is understanding the very nature of existence.  We are delicate creatures which are also made of pre-existent fibers of the universe, but have grown to understand this weave, and in time, see it.  It is something novel, something eminent, something profound to change the very weave of the universe, to re-weave it, as you will, or add new fibers.  This very basic construction, is so powerful, and yet subtle, that it changes your very being, bringing you so far beyond the simple magics of this world and other worlds, that they seem useless and pale by comparison.”  An echo less silence, oppressing everything surrounding the Son and Father followed that speech, and something truly profound happened.

   The Son, for the first time in his life, began to see his Father, and it scarred him for life, for his Father was not as he imagined.  He was not strong and muscular, he was not thin and fit, he was not tall inside that shroud, waiting for the right moment to lift his head and shoulders from a stoop.  He was nothing but what he spoke of.  Or to say that there was indeed very little left of any recognizable human form.  His thick shroud of cloaks paled, and became translucent, their fibers glowing of subtle power, each one with a purpose to it's existence, woven with delicate care of a master weaver, finer than any eye could see, so impossibly fine that the Son wondered what had happened.

   “SON!”  The words of his father snapped his attention from the weave of the fading cloaks to where the face of his Father belonged.  “Focus not too intently on one thing, or you will lose yourself!  You are not prepared to see what I will show you, but this is the only way to prepare one's self!  Listen to wisdom!  Let the feel of what is before you, guide you, but never focus, or you will lose yourself, you will allow your greed for what you search control your thoughts, and become trapped in a cycle you can never leave!  What you search for is not here, in these threads, but in the weave that you thread around yourself!”

   Suddenly the Son saw it then, the weave around him, in all directions, and so infinitely fine that each inch was impossibly massive, and full of potential.  “Moroch, my Son, this is the Weave.”  Moroch stared, dazzeled by its shear luminosity, and reached for a single thread, if it was possible, and gently tugged.  It gave under his fingers, and changed colors.  He tied it through some other weaving, slowly pulling a knot, tightening that spot of weave into a brighter and tighter spot of potential, so much so that it started to burn his fingers.  His hand instinctively shot back from the heat, and the weave returned to normal, except for the small thread that he pulled, that dangled in the nothingness before him, slowly graying from white to black, then fading from existence.

   “Son, what you have done is broken part of the weave and used that single thread of broken weave to cause great destruction to another part.  Now you will witness how such a subtle thing can affect a world, and why you must learn to control such a power, and harness it to strengthen your mind to comprehend how to use it properly.”

   His Father was gone, and the world returned, very quickly, snapping him back, filling him with pain.  He did not remember it being such a hot day today, but it felt as if the sun was beating down upon him, roasting him alive, his skin was bubbling and boiling, such heat!

   Moroch opened his eyes, and could not believe what he saw.  The earthen ground he stood on was a ground of ashen tar, with cracks of glowing red heat rising from under its shallow encrusted surface.  It was as far as the eye could see and further that the destruction was, so massive was it that the sky had turned red, and clouds of deep gray harbored a red intensity of their own, then began to rain a light sprinkling of fire and ash. 

   “Oh, Father... what have I done?”

Good stuff!

This is exactly the kind of thing I was looking for. I will get back to you on the rest but I think you've done extremely well on your structure and plot. (I want to talk to you about Moroch.)

BTW welcome back

Cheers,
Anich

kinda back, i'm waiting on money right now... then when i make enough i'll disappear again for a while... it'll be a vicious cycle till the basement is done. =)

Very Nice piece TPK, . Nice timing, this fits well with recent discussions in CWG. Very well written.

very very nice! and btw, isn't it called a "vicious CIRCLE"? Just interested, cause in social science this is used very often, so i have to use it very often, too.

nobbit: its theatrics to not use words people expect to be used :wink:

ok, didn't get it in this context - I think that is the case in every language, though

Chapter Two: Of Passage

Warning: there is gore in this chapter

   Moroch breathed in the thick sea air, it was salty, and stung his lungs.  He welcomed the penance for what he had done to that village and his father's tower.  It also helped that it did not smell of Sulfur and Brine stone, that was not his idea of pleasant, and the charred ground he laid smelled reeked of it.

   “Ho, ye thin one, working yer way to uh boat fer travels?”

   Moroch looked up from the dock, and there stood a man dropping a rope ladder down the side of what could only be considered the largest boat he had ever seen in his life.  “Yes, I believe I must be looking for Passage to elsewhere, I am looking for my Father, where does your boat go to?”

   The Sailor rolled his eyes, at least if people approached their boat, they could have the courtesy to read the sign posted in front of it.  “This babe here will take yaas far os Illuma, and only taken uh few days os well, fastest boat there ever was, yasee?”

   Moroch vaguely remembered hearing of Illuma in a geography lesson back in his father's tower, but he was now trying to forget such memories.  “Yes, Illuma must be closer to where I am going, but do you know the way to Daedrich?”

   The sailor turned white a made a symbol above his chest quickly, whispering something.  He looked back at Moroch, and stated very sternly “I'm not accustomed ta refusing uh voyage, but speak more crazy like that, and ya won't be joinin' us.”  The sailor disappeared for a moment, then was back, looking a bit healthier.  “Again, the voyage os open, fer you to join, and the price os on the sign, let meh know before we haul anchor, and yer welcome.”

   Money made no register to Moroch.  And so the sign really did not make any sense at all.  There were weird symbols, and numbers next to them for all these city names that he barely recognized, none of them Daedrich.

   He had a sinking feeling this was going to be a bit more complicated than just going for a voyage.  Perhaps, he thought, it might be best to find someone who knows a bit more about this.  There must be a resident Magics teacher, or Sorcerer, or something...  “Excuse me, sir!”  He jumped in front of the nearest person, which happened to be the biggest oaf for the next ten miles.  His shoulders were as broad as Moroch was tall, and the muscles bulged beneath the loose clothing he wore, and clinged to his skin in area where he sweat, revealing even more vividly the thick carved muscles.

   “Whats yous wants?”  He rumbled annoyed that such a pesky little thing stood in his way.  It was only a moment before he would decide to swat this mosquito out of his way.

   “I am looking for the nearest Mage trainer, or Seerer, or Wizard teacher, or Sorcerer, could you tell me if there is one in this town?  surely there is one, but it would be a matter of knowing!”  A crowd had gathered around the two awaiting something that Moroch couldn't discern, but it worried him that something terrible could definitely happen very soon, and it didn't seem like he was suspected to be on the winning side.

   “Whys yous asks Mes?  I's knows nofins abouts magics.”  He had started to raise his arm as he spoke, and Moroch saw the great muscles chord up and tighten like a Bow ready to fire.  Such strength!  “Now outtas Mes WAYS!”  His arm came crashing towards Moroch, hurtling as an iron anvil, unstoppable, trying to crush his bones to nothing.

   It was that moment that something snapped in Moroch, it was a turning point in his short life of how he must act and what other people truly were.  It would be inevitable that some of them must be elder earth elementals trying to kill him (or some other wild creation of magic that has no sense).  “Zich!”  Moroch reached deep inside of himself and pulled the essence of his will, and gathered it in his arm, swinging it back against the offending arm of his assailant, swiping it aside.

   The crowd watched in amusement at the little figure that went to hold up his arm to defend himself, then in horror as the giant monstrosity of a man got his arm swept aside by such a punny creature.  The fear grew as the lithe boney arm stretched out and touched the huge man, with nothing more than the force of a gentle carver putting the final touch on his lifetime masterpiece.

   The man who was afflicted otherwise would have disagreed with the crowd assertation of that touch (had he lived to tell it), and at the point of contact, so would the crowd.  The mosterous man was ripped from his spot, as if hit by a moving mountain, his arms tearing from their sockets, his head popping from his shoulders, gruesomely falling to the ground as his body tore from them, flying away into the distant clouds.  The onlooking crowd was splattered with blood, hurled from the silent and exacting carnage.  Moroch looked around at them, his face smeared with sweat and blood, wondering if there was another silly creature who dared attack him.

   Before anything more could happen, a quick flash of blue boiling smoke and flames puffed next to Moroch, and puffed into nothingness with him.  Leaving the crowd to stare at two lumps of arms and a dismembered head, neither of which were very reassuring, before slowly, and very reluctantly returning to what they were originally doing, for those that could not remember what they were doing, home was all they could think of, anywhere safe.

Very nice again! I think u are a writer in rl, aren't u? u just tell us stories about ur "real" work, but ur real real work is writing, for sure!

U think this is said too much? might be, but TPK is the first, who put our Clan (Gore-Alliance) into a book - so i guess, he earnet:


 

Chapter Three: Fate

   “So, Sorcerer, I see you have Initiated.”  The voice was muffled, and dry, and sat at a seat, at a round table, like many other voices, each cloaked and masked.  It didn't take a genius who spoke from which mask at this level of Awareness, but the general idea was nice.

   “Hm, of which initiation do you speak, Puppet Master, Riddler, Placrotes?”  The Sorcerer's low rumble never did register through those masks, even if he was wearing one, which, at this moment, he was not, as he was the center of attention standing in the middle of that table.  In shackles... Which were made of common iron.  Again, for the idea of what was happening more than anything.

   “Did you notice that, my fellows?  How he disobeys our rules, and finds himself thinking that he is above all that we have worked for?”  The muffled Puppet Master would have flared a knowing grin at his comrades if he could, but that was something that didn't come across through these masks.  Fortunately.

   “Yes,”  The word was more like a sigh coming from another muffled voice just down the table, this one with it's head proped up with an arm and an elbow on the table, while it's other hand drew circles on the wood.  “I suppose we should find some fitting punishment for his silly insolence...”  The voice then realized that sarcasm and disinterest didn't translate through the masks and decided to add to clarify, “Uhm, I mean, what has he done wrong?”

   The Sorcerer sighed heavily.  Poor Nunnos never was one for rules.  Her beautiful gardens and wild hybrid plants seemed to agree it wasn't necessary, too.  “Nunnos, my dear, I have broken two rules made at this table by the majority of the masks here, which neither of us were truly interested in having.  The first rule I broke was teaching my son to see the weave.  It was agreed upon, by the majority, that this should never be done, and that only those who had the driver and will to see beyond what existed in front of them should get this honor.  Meaning then need to find it themselves.  Second...”  He paused, and hesitated.

   Many of the masks leaned forward, their eyes shimmering silver, from the platinum eyes that the masks offered.  They knew of the first transgression, but not of the second.  One confirmed this, “Have you really made two errors of judgment in such a short period of time?  I do not approve of this Magic Wielder.  I do not approve indeed.”

   The Sorcerer smiled ostentatiously, wider and with more mirth than any in that room could remember.  Not that any of them could remember him ever smiling before anyhow.  “My wonderful Catha, always vigilant to rectify wrongs.”  He laughed.  The very weave shook with this laughter, he was such a part of it that his mirth was it's mirth.  His fellows that sat at the tale around him leaned back and he could feel their fear and uncertainty, and from some, he could feel anger, resentment, and jealousy.  Power made them all strong, Awareness of something more than what other people saw made them wise, but for all that, even the wisest of them still had an ego.  Their egos here interested in removing a now very clear threat.  “I'll be honest with you all, first, then honest again with my confession, then, honest with my terms.”

   “What makes you thin-”  Catha began to speak but found herself speechless as the Sorcerer grew in size, and waved one hand.  It was as if a cold ice had came from nowhere, and shackled their muscles to their bones, without hope of moving.  Those who could, lashed out psychicly, or with silent still magics, but their feeble attempt were quickly, silently, and forcibly rebuked.

   “I,”  Rumbled the Sorcerer in shackles, “Don't need your permission to think, Catha.”  He spun to the Puppet Master.  “Now, Placrotes, Listen carefully, for I will not repeat this.  The spell has been cast, your dreams will come true, and you will be more powerful than ever.  As for me, I Am the Weave.  We are one, to kill one would be to kill them both.  All of your magics now come from my life and blood.  Let you all remember that.  When you cast a spell, you now cast me!  That is the truth!”

   An Indigo puff of smoke rose at one arc of the table, and a small voice peeped in “Sorry about being late, guys, this whole 'Ruling a world' thing is quite a lot of work...”  The voice was clearly female, clearly unmasked, and clearly attractive.  “This is a bad time isn't it?  Maybe I should go back to ruling my world...”

   “Sit.”  She sat in one of the seats, unable to resist.  “Now, Elaine, we were just going to discuss my last transgression.  Glad of you to join us.”

   “But Mer-”

   “Shhhiiippppbbb.  Thats enough, Elaine, Just look pretty for now.”  The Sorcerer removed his attention from Elaine, and went back to his speech.  “For the record, I did not conceive of this rule, nor support it.  In fact, I knew the future enough to call against it.  We are the pinnacle of our existence.  there is none others like us.  For this reason, I spun a spell.  Or, it might be more accurate to say: I spun the weave, not just in one spot, but the Weave itself, all of it, to make happen what shall happen.  We are Immortal by awareness of what it is to be mortal.  This is now different.  We are now, what we could say are Gods.”

   Confusion of his prey swept over the Sorcerer, but he knew why they were confused, and what dispel their ignorance.  “We each have worlds, this was by design, and our worlds we make in an image of ourselves and what we desire every world to be.  These worlds will now return to use the strength that we put into them.  Not inherently, y with each and every person that worships us, we shall gain a small portion of power.  Too long have we sat on thrones made with idle hands.  We are powerful, and should push our subjects to reach for such power.  Thus we now have the ability to grant our subjects small tokens of our power from time to time.  We must take this opportunity to show our subjects our wisdom, and how we can help them lead better lives!  My Spell cast upon All of You and Myself is nothing but an extension of our already paramount power!”

   The Sorcerer looked at his victims, and most of them were silent, without fear or retribution.  “You knew this was coming, most of you saw it in the future!  There is no use in running from fate!”

   Still the table was silent.  The Sorcerer released his grasp, and warmth flowed back to the arms and legs and minds of his fellows.  Slowly, one by one, they disappeared in smoke, back to their own worlds, to contemplate their next moves.  Elaine stayed behind, as well as Catha, and one other.

   They two with masks pealed them off, Catha to reveal a sleek drawn face, with eyes sharp as steel, ready to cut at any moment.  The other removed his mask to show an indescribable monstrosity.

   It was this second one that spoke: “Merlin, my Friend, you played into Fate's hands.  We discussed this.  It was not the future we wanted.”

   “No... You're wrong... It was the future I wanted, to see my child.  I could not bear to lose him.”

   Catha jumped the table and drew a sword from under her cloak and pressed it against the Sorcerer's cloaks.  “You selfish bastard.  We discussed this, Me, You, and Tabernacle.  We agreed.  Now you have Damned us to Hell till the Days After the Fall.  You have created Gods.  Now witness the God Wars that ensue!  Witness the Carnage of your precious Nunnos, as her world is burned by Demons of Placrotes, and later, the Demons of Moroch.”  Catha spit at the Sorcerer, and hurled her sword across the room, narrowly missing Elaine's head.  She pulled a Shield from beneath her robes, and used it to press the Sorcerer against the edge of the table.  “We shall all suffer for your greed, Merlin.”  She was becoming livid with rage and had started to scream. “Why would you do such a thing?!  What did you think we would do about it?!  React civilly?!”  She collapsed to the ground, crying, confused, hurt, and ferocious.

   Merlin bent to her, and hugged her, she was a betrayed woman, her heart broken by a first love, and she would not forget this, he knew, but he could do nothing but hug and console her.

   “You know, Merlin, perhaps you could save us from Exile in Hell by ridding these planes of your Son.”  Elaine may be younger, and inexperienced, but she didn't become a God herself without talent.  None of this escaped her.

   Merlin looked up at her, and smiled very sadly.  “Elaine, how far have you seen?”

   “Not far enough to know what your going to tell me about evidently...”

   “You, Elaine, will be the one to show that my Son is not evil, but only confused, and without guidance.  The sooner you walk in his footsteps, the sooner these world's Misery shall end.”

   “Whatever Old Man, get a new hobby.”  With that she puffed into smoke.  Catha took the moment to do the same.

   “My Son, what have I done?”  And with that, Merlin faded to nothingness, leaving the Tabernacle to stand with his thoughts by himself in the Meeting Room.

Chapter Four: Backlash

   “So where am I now?”  Moroch was bound with his hands behind a chair, sitting down, and head bagged by a potato sack.  He was definitely amused.  If this is how they expected to hold wizards captive, they were sorely misguided.

   “Lets talk about something else, what about that force blast?  That was pretty power, I've not seen a force blast like that in a long time!”  Moroch couldn't see the voice per-se, but he could sense the reek of magic coming off of the mage's body, and his every move spoke of uncertainty.  It was very clever of this mage to teleport him directly into being tied up and bagged like this.  He should learn that spell, it might be useful.

   “Like I had said before, and I'll let you know again, it wasn't a force blast, but an extension of my Will.”  The mage did not like that answer last time, and definitely did not like it this time, and a painful pick to Moroch's tied hands made that a point this time.  “If you do that again, you will regret it.”  Moroch's voice dripped with threat and his voice was thick with finality.

   “No one tells me what to do, or threatens me.”  The wizard made the unfortunate mistake of kicking Moroch again.  Fingers snapped this time, with a sickening crack.

   Reaching deep inside himself, finding his will again, Moroch pulled together three very opposite spells, and stripped them down to suit his purposes.  A great healing spell, a Fireball spell, and a Paralysis spell.  Except now it was a Burning skin spell, in which the owner was healed by the extreme heat of the flames (everything else was not), and did not feel any of the heat himself.

   With that Moroch went up in flames, exposing in bright light, cavern walls with no opening, a table with torture instruments, and a wall covering of the mage.  The mage backed away in horror at the living fireball, his skin boiling from the intense heat in front of him, burning his skin, nose and eyes.  So hot, who could cast such a spell and live?

   Moroch had no real need for the spell above escape and healing of his delicate fingers, so he banished it.  The mage was cowering against one of the walls, horribly disfigured from the heat, but Moroch had no pity for someone who brought this upon himself.  In fact, he was entirely interested in what actually did cause this mage to become the way he was.

   The last the mage saw before death was a hand, lithe and sharp, reach down for him, slowly glowing, brighter each moment it got closer, until all he saw was white.  Then he was gone.  Death was so empty.


   Merlin was in Daedrich, his self made plane, which he called home, when he was disturbed from his thoughtless staring at a small figurine of his son.  There was a slight disturbance to the weave behind him, and he looked to see a middle aged mage there, in good health.

   “Where am I?  How did I get here?”

   Laughter roared around Merlin, as he recognized what had just happened.  This must be the effects of his weaving.  It will be so interesting when droves of dead start pouring into the personal space of the other newly proclaimed Gods.  Patronage is such a wonderful gift.


   An elegant female face gently reflected in it's distorted curves off a somewhat large crystal ball, clouded by the tremulous clouds within it.  She watched with some disgust at the young Moroch eating the middle aged mage's mind, slowly absorbing it into himself, taking in that mage's experiences, spells, and power.

   “Who are you?”  Stunned blue eyes were looking at the most beautiful woman that these eyes had ever seen in their life.

   “What the hell?!  No, who are you and how did you get here?”  Elaine was startled by the sudden appearance of a young, albeit, very good looking, male behind here.  She wasn't too upset looking at how beautifully handsome he was, but she was disturbed that he was somehow in her personal plane.  She didn't even think Merlin know about this space.


   The lither sharp fingers withdrew from the mage's head, its fingers clenching to a fist.  So this is what it was like to be human.  Such anger and confusion in life without his father's shelter and care.  These people are so confined to their bodies, so lonely.  Moroch stood and stared at the wrangled burnt body for a bit, actually sorry that this man was dead.  He went through so much to get where he was, and now that he actually felt secure for once in his life, he had been killed.  On the other side of things, he was a cheat, a thief, and liar.  He deserved this fate.

   He hadn't noticed it before, but this space was very constricting.  There was no light, as the candles on the tale went out long ago, and his skin was no longer in flame.  There was a glow from the ceiling being super heated, but even that had faded.  What was stranger, was he felt light headed, and almost as if it was hard to breathe.  Tired, he needed to lay down, it was so tiring, to be in here.  It must have been the spells he cast, he couldn't think right, but spells had never tired him before.  He couldn't be sure, of anything except himself being tired, and that he should sleep.  So hard to breathe...  like... not... enough... air... must... sleep... lungs... so... tired...

   He laid still on the cave floor breathing deeply the oxygen deprived air, enclosed in a very large almost perfectly sealed casket.

   He dreamed of the memories of the mage he had just killed, those memories washing over him, showing him the ways of life, the fears and passions of these creatures he was never accustom to being.  He realized that his silly fears were fairly unbased, and that people were generally not encountered by anything such as an elder earth elemental.  These people's fears were more base, such as where their next meal would come from, whether or not they would ever find a mate like themselves, or whether they would be caught between two forces of war and lose their lives.  Such fears were real, and it was an every day battle for survival.  These people were daily warriors, who fought the battles of life and made the world turn.

   All in all, Moroch was learning much from these memories, whether he wanted to or not.  He had no choice, lying unconscious on that cavern floor, silent to the world.

Chapter Five: New Beginnings

   “Its been months, Merlin, and you and I both know that no one has entered my domain yet, because those who worship life don't die.”  The Tabernacle was annoyed with his old friend, after all, who else could he vent his frustrations to?  Catha turned to a wreck again after the first few people showed up to her private plane of “Justice.”  It was so bad that she started running trials of their lives, and whether or not they had truly been just or not.  The Tabernacle had much in his life he didn't want that mad woman looking at and scrutinizing.

   “Hmmm?”  Merlin was sculpting a tower with his mind, and with a wave of his hand, made it solid.  Another nice feature to his private study with plenty of students to use it and teach.  Who cares if they were dead?  Perhaps one day they could teach him something.  “You know, Tabernacle, its fine to not like you spot in life, but what can you do?  My followers, whether they know they follow me or not, die daily.  Which means I need more daily.  If you don't need more because they live forever, then you'll never get weaker.  If I don't go down to different planes and actively recruit people to the arts of magic as their main focus of life, I will slowly get weaker, and eventually, magic will disappear.  For if I get weaker, so will the weave, and this the spells, and thus everything else, and people won't want to use magic anymore... you see where this is going, right?”

   “I guess that may be a dilemma, but it doesn't change what I want to do.  I have no interest in waiting a millennium for someone to die to have company in the study.”  His arms were crossed, and he stared at the Sorcerer, knowing what response was coming before he even heard it.

   “Your the only one who is complaining about NOT having people invade their personal space.  You realize that, right?”  It could never escape the Tabernacle how soothing his friend's voice was, even though he was frighteningly powerful, and could crush him like a pea, he never would, because he enjoyed people much more alive.  As did the Tabernacle.

   “Still.”  He knew what he wanted, and would not give up on his friend trying to lead him astray.  Even if that friend was so damn persuasive.

   “So what is it we are going to do?”  Merlin did not like this idea much, but he had to give the Tabernacle credit, it was very clever and a very good way to grow his way up the new power ladder of Gods.

   “I need you to make me a platinum hand enamored with mithrel.  Indestructible by anything but the spell that it will hold.  This spell will allow any user to sacrifice a part of their life to revive anyone else.  However, this binds the caster and the recipient to my life force forever after they die.  Meaning they do not go to their respective “heavens” owned by other Gods, but they go directly into my soul, giving me more power.  Each time this happens, my life force that is used to cast that spell of revival is then twined with those souls, and kept in the artifact until all of my life force has been expended to revive, and bind souls.  When I have no more life force to give, The artifact consumes the next life used to revive someone, and I claim that body as my new body, and all of the power from the artifact will flow into that new body, destroying the artifact, and reviving me, so a might heightened power level.”

   “Thats a lot of work.”

   “Good thing you have so many apprentices to help you out!”  The Tabernacle laughed out at his own joke.

   Merlin thought for a it, then hesitant to ask, offered a question: “You have a very powerful life force, being the God of Life and all...  Won't it take a very long time for creatures to use it all up?  Several million years, for example... by my calculations...”

   The Tabernacle grew serious for a moment.  “I forsee a war.”  He did not say more, and by the look on his face, Merlin knew he would not say more.  Such a war, though, would have to be cataclysmic for the Tabernacle to be revived.  Stranger things have happened, and would probably happen soon.


   Pwyll rose from the table which he was speaking.  Sat around it were the more powerful of the elder races surviving.  There were three Living Fire spirits, two Horned Reptiles, and two small slabs of slime.  The slimes were sitting on the table, not at it rather.  He was not sure what this new “God-manship” meant to them, or whether they even cared.  Either way, he was the puppet master, and would do what he did best.

   “So you all understand now, that we are Gods, the PlanesShifters and WeaveBuilder, we have been escalated to a greater power.”  These were powerful being, God-dom or not, they could probably crush him without much of a thought.  Especially those slimes...  He cringed at the thought of they touching him.

   “Again,” one of the Reptiles spoke, “What concern is this to us?”  He was very large, bigger than most small castles, and his voice rumbled in the private darkness.  He stretched his wings to show he was not a creature to be trifled with.

   Pwyll was again glad that he had not used the God's meeting chambers, but rather, made a new plane with plenty of room.  He was also glad for the over sized table that made him look small.  “What concerns you, is that your powers become weaker as our's grow.  It's a problem because you shall soon cease to exist, and the universe will forget your very being.”

   “It is the way of the fire to die...  We have no need to be known”  The flames flicked their tounges out as they spoke, lighting the table with orange, red and yellow flames, scorching in the direction they spoke.

   “All flames leave ashes, this can help you live as flames, or leave a world of ashes if you do not.  Think of it, a world where nothing but fire and molten rocks live!  For a new breed of reptiles to crawl and grow strong, and slimes to grow to such sizes, feeding on the heat, that they touch the sky!”

   This interested them all, but still they were wary, they knew his name was the puppet master, and knew this would serve his needs as much as their's.

   “And why do we not just make this world ourselves?  We have such power to do so, and we could see it live on because of such.”  The slimes, which ever one (you could never tell which was speaking) spoke in there.  “What would we gain by freeing this ancient power you speak of and harnessing it to help us with this endeavor?”

   This is where Pwyll drew his trump card.  “Part of the new structure of the universe and weave is that such, if there is no God to vouch for a plane, or, rather no God to which and of the beings on the plane belong, the plane will irrevocably cease to exist within days of being created.  Your haven will only exist for a small while, unless you can harness enough power to become Gods yourself.”  This was new knowledge to him before yesterday and those around him now, as this had never been true before.  The universe now had a system of  “accounting” now, and all those useless planes took too much effort for the universe to keep track of... so they simply didn't exist any longer.  It was a very efficient design.  Pwyll did marvel a bit at the clever design that Merlin came up with.  Then again, if you have since the beginning of time to come up with such things, it would have to be clever.

   The creatures before him thought, but he knew they had already decided.  They were getting weak, and needed a refuge, somewhere to grow strong again.  They needed a risk worth taking.  Pwyll, however, knew this wasn't the right risk for them to take.  It was, however, the way for him to become more powerful than all the other Gods... Except Merlin...  He hadn't figured out yet what he was going to do with Merlin...

stunned

This is easily a small novel. Great stuff Keepers .

Cheers,
Anich

Chapter Six: Glimmer

   “Times have changed Theo, you should admit that before you continue to think that you can cast that spell.”  As Chancellor to the Prince Theoris, and often time his best friend, and worst enemy to his mad schemes, Mariam barely drew a glance from the Prince's direction.  He was busy concentrating on drawing his will and threads of the weave near, into a small crystal ball.

   The crystal ball hazarded a glimmering reminiscence of what the slightest glow might be.  Theoris's brow dripped of sweat, concentrating, deep in reverie.

   Mariam wished he would breathe more.  That dummy always did this to himself, pushing to the very limits.  Talking about nonsense, like magic was made of tiny threads, and not a some gentle aura surrounding them all.  The Wise Elders nodded their heads when he spoke of it, but behind his back they all wondered of what he spoke, and even questioned his sanity, or ability to cast magics these days.  He made very few displays since his acceptance to prince of the throne.

   “Ah,” Theoris breathed, and Mariam broke from her fretful thoughts to run up and hug him.  He half heartedly, and with great distraction hugged back with one arm, looking happily at the glimmer that remained in the orb.  “See that Mariam, a glimmer!”

   Mariam looked over her shoulder at it, still hugging him, not very impressed.  “So?  I can make a globe like that glow brighter than Soonas, why do you find that so great?”  Perhaps the elders were right, and he had lost his mind.  She hoped they were wrong, but it was times like these that she feared they were right.

   “My dear Mariam, can you detect magic from that glowing orb?”  He had a wistful smile, and wore it proudly like a victorious gambler who just beat the odds.  This would surely be a treat, and he knew she would be baffled.  He couldn't wait for the look on her face.

   She cast a quick detection charm.  Nothing.  Then another, this time more powerful, with a dispelling charm tied to it, then another, a great dispelling charm, and a hidden magics detection.  She frowned.  Perhaps there was just a thread and the spell was elsewhere, or perhaps it was being lit  from another spot in the room with an “invisible light until reflection” charm.  She looked around, but nothing jumped out as unusual.  “Well, I'm stumped, whats the trick?”

   She was pouting and he could see it written all over her face.  It was definitely funny.  “You see, these things I keep talking about, Threads, and all?  I moved a few threads, and now this or is lit up!”  As he spoke, he lifted the small crystal ball from the table where it lied, with one hand.  A very dumbfounded look crossed his face when the glimmer of light stayed where it was and the crystal ball moved.

   “So, I take it thats not suppose to happen?”  Mariam bowled over laughing at the look on his face, she hadn't seen him that astonished in years.    All he could manage was a few “uh”'s, which just increased he laughter till her sides ached.  He was still standing there, just scratching his head, not sure what exactly was going on, himself, now.

   The laughter had been so commanding that Mariam found herself on the floor when it finally subsided, and she remembered why she took this job when it was offered to her years ago despite Theoris being fairly unknown then, nothing like the prince he was now.  The ceiling was richly painted of the most magnificent scenes she had ever seen.  He may be a very powerful Archmage, but before all that, he was a stunning artist.  Or, at least, he used to be, before he came up with this idea of “threads”.

   It drove him, so much, that his powers grew at an astonishing rate, so frighteningly fast that the Elders took notice.  It was rare for the Elders to confront a Krillin, especially a lower class, artist, Krillin, about competing for the honorable chance to become a Prince of the Krillin Empire.

   The competition was only held every hundred or so years, usually after the King had disappeared for a good period of time (about 10 or so years) and was suspected dead or removed for one purpose or another (usually for his own reasons – and thus never the reason to go find out what had really happened to him), or occasionally when the existing prince was slain by some spell he cast and had lost control, it killing him, and running amok the kingdom until a few Warmages decided that the point had been made, and no one else was going to stop it.

   Warmages were somewhat bitter in that way.  Not quite the most powerful bunch of spellcasters, but no one matched their warmongering abilities.  Yet only once had one been a prince ever in the Krillin history.

   “I still don't know what went wrong...”  Theoris was looking at the light from all different angles, trying his best to understand why it wasn't in the crystal ball.  “I just don't know how I could have put it in the very essence of that space, and not have it attached to some sort of definitive object!”

   Mariam sighed at him and smiled, her wonderful boss was very clever, but he never really got why she stood with him.  She wished he would look at her in the same way he looked at his experiments.  Either way, perhaps it had something to do with...  “What about the new order of magic, haven't the Elders been discussing that lately, and how the Weave has weakened in some places?”  She couldn't pretend to understand what they meant, but everyone except Theoris was bothered by the new way magics worked.

   “They just don't understand what happened.”  She had brought that subject up again.  He didn't want to hear about it, and yet was in arguments about it daily.  It was a pointless discussion, because everyone thought they knew more about it than he did, but they always knew less than the person before them.  Its true magics were more uncertain these days.  That is, if you didn't know what was happening.

   “Maybe you could try explaining it to me again?”  Puppy eyes were always his weak spot, and she knew that.  He sat down next to her, frustrated but helpless to inform his wonderfully persuasive assistant.

   “The Planeswalkers, or, Planesshifters, depending on who you ask, have, in some way changed the weave.  The have changed magic, and blocked access to their worlds.  Its as if they put up a mirror, so anyone who looks to another plane just sees their own.  If you look closely enough, you can see through to other planes, but it is very difficult.  They also did something with the dead.  Their souls don't live on forever anymore.  They go somewhere.  When I try and follow one, it goes through one of these mirrors to another plane, then it looks as if it becomes a million of itself, then they all disappear.  I don't know what it means.  It makes it impossible to communicate with the dead now though.”  He was thoughtful over all of this, she knew he was still looking for answers, and wouldn't stop until he found them.

   The light was still glimmering, like a laughing little thought that the universe had of this Theoris and his ideas, but Theoris was up to it, he would figure it out eventually.  He just needed some time.

   Which he would soon find was very short.